


But Darling

by killiansbutt



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killiansbutt/pseuds/killiansbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking and entering is a crime, no matter the intentions, but Emma knew she would freeze to death if she didn't do something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinityofthesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinityofthesky/gifts).



Snow storms are the worst. They come out of nowhere most of the time, sending a blizzard of white, slushy shit into her face whenever she dared venture out of her bug. She stopped risking that her first winter in Maine though. Now, in her second, she was wise enough to wait it out, at least until it was warm enough for the slap of Mother Nature to not sting as much.

It would be easier if Mother Nature didn’t try to lull them into a false sense of security. Just a few months ago, the storm had died down for a few hours then came back raging harder than ever in a way that people swore was witchcraft and the aftermath had killed three people. 

Just a few days ago it buried her car under snow and forced her to rent a room at the inn, putting her behind schedule. She wouldn’t be able to rent a place for another few weeks, especially if her job decided that her criminal record was too much for them.

She didn’t want to be another casualty of winter, even if it seemed the odds were stacked against her. Her car was her refuge until it was safe, until it was warm, but... 

It was _so cold_ , even bundled as she was with just about every pair of clothes she owned draped over her like a blanket. A dramatic side of her didn’t think it would be warm again. Surely outside wasn’t worse than _this_. 

She lifted her face from the warmth of her cocoon, consisting of a ragged blanket in need of a wash that she thrown over the clothes piled around her, to peek out the rear window, teeth chattering as the temperature crept lower. She swiped her sleeve across the window, but it didn’t help her see outside anymore than she already could.

Frost clung to the window, a sticky embrace that wouldn’t be thwarted by her typical response of snark and violence. Though the temperature fell more and more with every passing minute, the snow had subsided, falling in a light drizzle that she eyed distrustfully, but they didn’t thicken up when she shifted to her feet, blanket pooling in her lap, and popped the seat forward. She grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders again as she pushed the door open quickly. 

The cold air slapped her, a gust of wind lifting her hair from her forehead and already her fingers felt like icicles from that brief moment it took to unfold herself from her bug and slam the door closed. She peeked at the sky, squinting for a sign of the time, but figured from the utter darkness that it was late.

It would only get colder from here.

She would probably die in her car, she reasoned, looking guiltily at one of the houses down the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, near a park that had seen better days, and nobody had questioned why her car had sat in that same spot for the better part of two days. In that time, Emma discovered a few things: people rarely ventured out of their houses even on days of good weather and the people who lived in the house at the end hadn’t been home the entire time she sat there.

They wouldn’t know if she went inside and slept on their floor, she reasoned again, her teeth beginning to chatter as she began to shuffle across the ice toward the house, her pace better suited for a ninety year old woman than her twenty-one years of age. Maybe she would even tidy up or leave a thank you card, with recommendations of how to keep their house better protected when they aren’t home. Or maybe she wouldn’t do anything because nobody would like knowing that a stranger was walking around their house, they wouldn’t sleep the same for weeks. 

She would figure that out later. At worse case, if she got arrested, at least she would be warm in jail. 

Well, warm enough. 

In the storm, the only light came from porches, but they did little to hide the patches of dark ice on the cracked sidewalk and she nearly fell ass over heels twice before she reached the edge of the lawn. It was a nice little house with weather beaten blue wood, a small covered porch off to the right of the large front door decorated with just a small table and two chairs on either side of it. The outside looked like the type of house that had been loved, forgotten, and loved once more. 

Her favorite feature was the tree though. It was taller than the house and twice as round as her with a large branch that stretched to a partially opened window on the second floor and her only route inside the house if all the other entrances were sealed. 

She walked up the lawn, careful not to slip and break a sprinkler or her foot on accident, unable to tell the difference from the grass and the pathway up to the house when it was covered by a blanket of snow. 

Thankfully, there were no incidents. The stairs up to the porch creaked under her weight, but the wind masked the sound. It masked her gasp when she reached the door as well. It was much larger than she looked, seeming to be made for a family of giraffes rather than humans. A pile of mail lay on the doorstep, a sign that nobody had been here in a while. She tested the door.

Of course it was locked. 

She sighed, wiggling the handle, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge and tossed her blanket onto one of the chairs. The process around the house to the backyard wasn’t much easier than getting from the front, especially when her cold and numbing fingers had to pry open the near frozen fence, slamming her shoulder into it to push it across the thick snow.

The back door was locked too. Now she was cold, tired, and her fingers felt like icicles. Maybe she was better off staying in the car, her boots and pants would be less frozen at least. Maybe she was better off staying in Arizona or Florida, where it wasn’t _this_ cold, maybe--

The snow fell quicker, the flakes thicker than before, and she shivered, hurrying back to the front yard. She needed to get back in her car before it got worse, she needed to--

She slipped, her foot skidding while her arms flailed for balance, and she grunted as she hit the floor. Snow stuck to her hair and back, soaking through the bottom of her jeans, foot throbbing, and as she laid there, an ache in her back, she felt a harsh shiver down her back. Going back to her car wasn’t an option, her clothes were too wet and she would really freeze to death which meant...

A tree branch wiggled above her, taunting her, and she scowled at it as she forced herself to her feet. See, she knew that window was still partially open and, see, she knew the tree and its branches were thick enough that she could easily climb up it and inside. 

See, she knew all this, but there was the fact that she hadn’t climbed a tree ever.

See, she knew all this, but she wasn’t so sure if she could handle being that high up, nothing to save her if she fell. There were no foster brothers threatening to throw her off the side of the stairway, but never letting go of her ankles. If she fell, that was it, she would probably break her foot and then die of exposure, frostbite, and hypothermia. 

See, she knew all this, but she didn’t really have much of a choice. 

It was a large tree, cold and rough to the touch, but she only admired this for a second before forcing herself to move, jumping to grab the nearest branch, her foot protesting the movement and protesting more when she dug her feet into the bark to find purchase on anything. She didn’t think about anything, moving instinctively, nearly falling more than once, testing her weight if she wasn’t sure, struggling to pull herself up and up and up and up...

The window wasn’t the largest she had seen, she wasn’t even sure if it would open enough for her to wiggle through, but she had just fought her equivalent of a dragon and she would try damn it. She edged her way across the branch, only stopping when the branch creaked ominously, and, without thinking, without considering, without giving herself time to back away, she sprung.

It was perhaps, in some manner or form, something akin to a mistake.

She didn’t miss, her fingers caught the windowsill easily, her whole body aching as her full weight hit the house, her feet scrambling against a wooden fixture jutting out just enough to hold her, she even managed to pull herself up enough to force her fingers under the window, to force it open an inch. 

Then her feet lost purchase on the wood. She squeaked, or shouted, or screamed, holding onto the window ledge with just her hands, her legs sliding against the wood, trying to find something, anything, but finding nothing and she didn’t look down, her heart beating too rapidly to hear anything or think anything. 

This would be how she died, suspected of breaking and entering (rightfully so), with broken bones and frostbite and just another empty funeral. What even happened to people who died, who had a name and couldn’t be considered a Jane Doe, but otherwise had nothing? 

It felt like hours of hanging there, of the way her heart raced furiously against time, of the way she looked down and saw her feet hanging, saw the floor seemingly miles and miles beneath her, but it must have been only seconds later that Emma heard the window open, screeching in protest and a dark haired man poked his head out, blue eyes squinting down at her blearily, a scruffy, unkempt beard on his jaw. His lips moved, but she was struck dumb, struck stupid, struck--

Her fingers shook, not just with the cold, but with the strain and there was only an instant, where she locked eyes with him, her own wide and panicky and his own hazy, narrowing in confusion, before her finger slipped. She thought she saw the wind grabbing her legs, she thought she saw the sky opening up, she thought she saw the tree branches whipping at her legs, she thought she saw the sun reaching for her and the ground trying to swallow her and she--

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, jerking her to a stop that had her crying out in relief and in pain as her shoulder and hand protested, but another hand closed around her wrist, pulling her up an inch and she cried out again. “Grab with your other hand,” he said, gritting his teeth, grunting a bit when she slipped in his grasp and flailed in her limbs. “I don’t fancy ripping your arm off.” 

He was practically hanging out the window, she noted later, but at that moment, she lifted her other hand, holding onto his for dear life. With determined, narrowed eyes, he pulled her up and over, toppling backwards when she finally made it inside the room, falling across him.

Both were panting, but Emma could feel the beginnings of panic setting in, her heart beating fast and her breathing shallow and shiver after shiver, some from the cold and most from the fall, until he spoke, sounding uncomfortable. “Well, certainly more memorable than knocking on the door and saying hello.”

She rolled off of him, rather impressed by her ability to continue into the roll and onto her knees away from him without messing up, her hands held up defensively. “Who are you?” She asked finally, her voice shaking, and she dropped her hands, hiding the way they shook by balling them into fists by her side.

He sat up too, running a hand through his messy black hair, his blue eyes flashing with something like amusement. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that? You were trying to break into _my_ home,” he pointed out. 

“I...” True. She couldn’t argue against that. “Sorry.” 

“For not telling me your name?” 

“For trying to break into your home. I didn’t think anyone was even here.” 

 “That doesn’t make it okay.” 

“No, but it’s cold...” She shrugged, not willing or not able, or some combination of both, to explain her problem to a perfect stranger and stopped there. He gave her strange, distrustful look. A perfect stranger that would probably call the police on her for breaking and entering, she amended in her head. “I’ll just... go then... since you’re here... Sorry for barging in.” 

She pushed herself to her feet, took one step, hobbled, and prompt fell over with a grunt and would have bashed her jaw nicely into the ground if he hadn’t caught her around the waist. “I imagine I could call the police and get them here before you could make it out the front door in your condition,” he said with an arch of his brows, his words remarkably clear for the alcohol she smelled on his breath. 

She wiggled out of his grip and he released her instantly, stepping an appropriate distance away for strangers. “Yeah, in this storm? I don’t think so, they’ll make you wait,” she snorted in reply, turning on her heel to leave again, gritting her teeth against the flair of pain the action brought.

“Probably, but I don’t think you should go out in the storm either, you’ll probably get hypothermia... That’d be bad form on my end. Let’s make a deal? I’ll willingly let you stay out the storm and won’t call the police if you tell me your name.” 

“Is this how you get women?” She asked, trying to sound uninterested, even if the way she glanced around the warm room longingly said otherwise.

“No, of course not,” he sounded offended. “I don’t make a habit of dating criminals, no offense.”

How could she not be offended? It was true, sure, but _he_ didn’t know that. “I’m not a criminal.”

“You tried to break into my house, how is that not a criminal action?”

“I wasn’t going to take anything!” 

“I’m pretty sure breaking and entering is still against the law regardless of whether you take something or not.”

Her walls were strong, but they weren’t yet reinforced by steel and she thought of the weeks after her stint in prison, where her face and name screamed criminal and her record only claimed that and how that was what people would know her for and she narrowed her eyes, something curling in her gut that might have been anger and might have been pain and might have been-- 

She shoved it down, deep as it could go, smothering the ember before it could turn into a flame. Nothing ever came of letting her anger get the best of her, nothing ever came of letting herself feel -- so she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she _wouldn’t_. 

“I’m not a criminal,” she said simply. 

He doesn’t respond, his eyes a weight on her back that she refused to question, continuing on her way out the door. Then, he spoke, hesitantly, the cockiness falling from his voice. “My offer still stands. If you’re not a criminal, but cold enough to break in here then it would be bad form to send you out in the snow.”

“What the hell is bad form?” She asked, exasperated and tempted in the same breath, still not turning to face him.

“Bad form is letting a half-frozen woman with an injury out into a blizzard when she clearly has nowhere to go.”

She froze, briefly, before asking flippantly. “Why do you say that? Maybe I just wanted to take a glimpse at the real estate in the area.” 

“Someone doesn’t give themselves an injury, climb a tree, and throw themselves at a window sill to see inside a house that isn’t for sale,” he pointed out, his turn to be exasperated, walking in front of her so they were face to face.  “Come on, lass, just agree. Pinky swear that I have no ulterior motive.” 

“Pinky swear?”

He held out his pinky. “Well, yeah, you just lift your pinky and wrap it around mine like this--”

“I know what a pinky swear is. I’m just surprised you’re using it, how old are you? Five?”

“I am twenty-five, I’ll have you know.” He wiggled his pinky at her, smiling “Afraid?” 

“You wish,” she muttered in response even though he was right. She was rather afraid, she didn’t want to be wrong about him, she didn’t want to get comfortable in the warmth -- of the house, she clarified in her mind -- and then have the police show up.

She couldn’t do it again.

Her foot protested, trying to give out on her, and that answered the question for her because Emma, truly, didn’t have a choice. She sighed, catching his pinky in hers, shaking it briefly, but he didn’t let her release it instantly, arching his brow in question, and she remembered the other part of his offer. “My name is Emma.” She wasn’t dumb enough to give him her last name too. 

“Well, Emma, I’m Killian.”

...

...

He wasn’t entirely stupid to leave her alone in the house. A name did not make a friendship, a deal did not make trust, but the part of him, an echo of Liam no doubt, told him that he couldn’t let her freeze to death. So he rounded up a pair of clothes from his dresser, one of his smaller shirts and a pair of sweats, shoving them in her arms and escorting her to the bathroom across from his bedroom.

She protested, he ignored her, turning on the shower. Then, when she made a noise to continue arguing, he faced her with wiggling eyebrows as he asked if she needed help. She didn’t, thank you very much, shoving him out of the bathroom while he patted himself on the back for a job well done when he heard the shifting of her clothes. He left before he could be tempted, but told her that he’d show her the washing machine when she was done for her things.

“There, I did your bloody bidding,” he muttered to the picture of his brother hanging on the wall, the only one still standing to escape his wrath. “Now give me peace.” His brother continued smiling at him, a face alight with joy and happiness as he ruffled a younger Killian’s hair, and didn’t respond to his demand. 

He ran a hand over his face, rubbing harshly at his eyes, but he wasn’t drunk enough or mad enough to rage at the lack of response. Glancing once more at the bathroom door, Killian allowed himself to go back into his room, certain that anything in the bathroom she could take wasn’t exactly something he would miss. 

Liam would probably kill him for the mess -- hell, Killian grimaced at the wreckage of his room, from broken picture on the floor, to the lopsided lamp across his bed, to the crumpled bed sheets tossed carelessly to the floor, he wanted to beat himself up for it. Every belonging he owned seemed to be on the floor, it was a wonder that he hadn’t tripped and broken his foot when he was drunk.

Not that he was very drunk anymore. His impromptu nap and then subsequent alarm, read as Emma slamming into the house in what a drunken Killian thought was a car driving through the living room, had chased away all the drunkenness, leaving behind him a sickly feeling in his stomach that he couldn’t decipher as hunger or nausea.  

He left the room again. It was a problem for future Killian. 

Emma took a long time in the shower, he noted a few minutes later, having gone into the other bathroom to wash his face and his teeth, promising himself it had to do with the taste of his mouth and nothing to do with the fact there was a beautiful woman in the house for the first time in....

Well, a long time. (Since Milah’s death, he reminded himself, grateful that her death didn’t invoke the same rush of emotions that it had a year ago). (If only Liam’s death could do the same). 

Still, he didn’t complain that there would be little to no hot water left by the time she got out, he could see from the smudge of faded make-up around her eyes and the smudge of dirt across her clothes that a shower would be well deserved. Just as much as coffee would be well deserved for him, he thought, pushing off the wall and heading downstairs to set it up.

He almost didn’t hear her come back in the room, his numb senses not quite what they used to be when he was in the Navy, but she wasn’t attempt to be quiet. Probably to prove that she wasn’t here to do something criminal, but she didn’t offer up conversation and Killian forced himself to do it instead. “Do you like coffee? We’ve got tea if you prefer that.”

“Coffee is fine,” she replied. 

“Not much of a talker?”

“Not really.”

“I’m patient. I’ll pull the conversation for the both of us, just jump in when you’re ready.” 

“You talk to yourself often?”

He laughed. “It’s called talking to people who aren’t here yet.” 

“I don’t think that’s the real name.”

“I’ll be sure to google the real one when I get internet here,” he poured two cups, hesitating over the creamer and the sugar, before dumping some into his cup and passing hers along with a raised brow. “Not sure how you take it, I’ll just leave it to you.”

Silently, she made her drink, focused entirely too much on her task for someone trying to pretend they were comfortable. She shifted too much, wincing as she did so, and flinging her hair over one shoulder, fiddling with the strands as she absently stirred. She didn’t look at him, not even once, but he got the feeling that she was very aware of where he was. 

He tried not to be offended by the fact that she was actively trying to ignore him, but it was a close thing. 

“Is this the part where I find out you called the police while I was in the shower, but we share sob stories before they get me and suddenly we’re kindred spirits. Then they arrest me. Then when I’m in prison, my cellmate turns out to be a friend of yours and when they get out they share a bunch of stories about my time in there that make you feel bad and bail me?” Emma asked suddenly, not pausing for breath.

“No.” He frowned thoughtfully, waiting for some sign that this was a joke, but she looked deadly serious. “No, definitely not, I’m a man of my word."

“Just checking.” 

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

She changed the subject, clearly a master of deflection. “So what are you doing hanging around in the house like a ghost? I was watching for days, I didn’t see anyone go in or out and the mail is piled up on your doorstep.” 

“Who says my mail is piling up?” It probably was, he couldn’t remember the last time he had checked on anything relevant to that, a sure sign that there were going to be a number of red envelopes demanding his attention before they shut off his power, his water, or whatever else he hadn’t paid since he stopped going to work two months ago.

“I tried the front door.”

“Ah, so the tree wasn’t the first thing you tried?”

“Most people leave the front door open, especially in storms. If not the front, then the back one.” 

“If I answer that, you’ve gotta answer something for me.” 

She hesitated, her eyes wide and flickering, the green hues darkening and lighting as she debated fiercely with herself. Around the edges, he could see them hardening, could see the beginnings of fragile walls starting to form, still not up to the task of protecting her, but trying still, walls as stubborn as the person building them. 

How he wanted to tell her that she didn’t need them. Not with him. He didn’t verbalize this, not when his own walls meant that he couldn’t do the same. Maybe they were kindred spirits in that regard, wanting their walls down, but unwilling to take that first step. 

“No,” she said then, breaking him from his thoughts. “Nevermind then.”

“Not curious?” 

“I am, but not enough to tell you more.” Not enough to tell him about herself, about who she was.

His hypocrisy knew no bounds and the words slipped out. “Try this thing called trust.” 

She stiffened, cold stone taking her place, and he knew that trust hadn’t been this hard to acquire once upon a time. Maybe the same day she started to build her walls is the same day she decided not to trust anyone. “Trust is earned.”

“How about I tell you the question I have first and then you can decide whether it’s too personal or not?” Reluctantly, she nodded, which isn’t what Killian expected and he scrambled for a question, scanning her for something that could tell him about her, but not so much about her that she would object to it.

This was also the first time he had _really_ looked at her. He knew her hair was blonde, but golden might have been a better term for it. He knew her eyes were green, but he didn’t think they were that green, the kind that sucked you and hypnotized you and you didn’t care the entire time. (And not because you were hypnotized.) 

There were crinkles around her eyes, a dimple in her chin, and Killian was so screwed if she decided to smile, he could already tell. Then, he caught sight of a pendant flickering around her neck, a swan from the look of it, and he remembered that he knew nothing about her except her name and it wouldn’t do to fall head over heels for somebody he didn’t know.

Over her shoulder, he caught sight of a picture of a boat, two boys standing on the deck with their arms around each other, a jagged crack passing over the taller one from when he had flung it off the wall. He sighed, the familiar pang of sadness and anger chewing on his insides, but when he turned to her, watching as she fiddled with her mug, clearly fighting her urge to run, he smiled faintly, finally figuring out his question. 

“Have you ever been to the ocean?” 


	2. Growing Comfort

Emma jerked in surprise, liquid sloshing over the side of her mug, one that she ignored in favor of watching the half smirk curl at his lips. Like he found her confusion at the innocent sounding question to be funny. “What?”

“The ocean. Have you ever been to it?” Killian repeated, giving her a respite from his probing eyes to grab a paper towel off the other counter, making a movement to clean up the mess. _Her_ mess -- she was a rather rude guest. Or whatever she was supposed to be. She stole it from him, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she wiped it up. 

His smirk returned in full force. Before he could say something, not entirely sure what would be worse for him to comment on, her blush or the fact that his question caught her off guard, she asked, “Like the beach?”

“Aye.”

She thought of Tallahassee. The humid weather to remind her of warm breath against her neck that last night together, the texture of the sand beneath her feet, the push and pull of the waves, and the fact that she didn’t enjoy any of it, too busy looking for _his_ hair, _his_ face, any sign of _him_ at all. Any sign of her family until, finally, she accepted the reality: he wasn’t here. He probably hadn’t ever been there, probably never would. 

Her fingers caught the chain around her neck, twirling it between her cold fingers, wondering how long it would be before his betrayal didn’t hurt like hell. The longing had faded now, though she couldn’t say when, maybe when they showed her the keys to the bug, the knowledge that he was most definitely alive, more of a taunt than anything. Maybe when she gave her son up. Maybe when she went to Tallahassee. She didn’t know and she didn’t care to trace back to that time when she jumped between righteous anger and fierce longing, until she settled on the numbness that propelled her through life now.

“If you tug on that anymore, you’ll probably break it off,” he pointed out, his eyes critically observing the tight grip she had on the chain. She hesitated, pulling just a little more, wishing she could rip it from her neck and throw it on the floor, stomp on it until it turned into minuscule fragments, but she wouldn’t. It was a reminder: don’t trust anyone, don’t make the same mistakes. 

Someday it wouldn’t be anymore than a chain instead of a tangible reminder of what happens when she gets too close to people. Like the Swans, like Lily, like him, like every other person in her life. No, she was locking her book of disappointments and burying it. 

She dropped her hand and it curled around the mug. “No, I haven’t. Is that your question?”

He leaned an elbow on the table, gracing her with a grin. “It was, but I can think of another one if you found it to be lacking in any substance. I’ll have to recommend that you go to the beach soon. I’ve never been in a place more soothing and something tells me, just a small whisper really, that you could use it.” 

She straightened, her eyes narrowing, distrustful as they were wary. “Are you implying something that will end with me throwing this in your face?” Her fingers tapped the side of her mug, just to ensure he knew she was serious. Guest or not, she wasn’t going to be judged by a stranger who drank himself to sleep. No matter how sympathetic she was. 

“I don’t think so? I’m merely saying that you seem stressed and a little bit of relaxing on the water, maybe going sailing, will be just the thing you need to unwind. I can think of other ways, but your threats of bodily injury will make me keep quiet.” Not quiet enough, she thought, eyes flickering to his mouth as he licked his lips, his blue eyes seeming to twinkle with mirth. 

She tore her gaze away, swallowing. “The only other ways would be for this snow storm to end so I can get back to my car.” 

His eyes narrowed, something flickering in their depths that Emma should have tried to decipher. She didn’t have the energy to do so and he didn’t have the will to hold onto it long enough for her to do anything. “Planning on travelling in this weather? Have an beau you’re eager to get back to?”

“Are we playing twenty questions?” 

He didn’t seem bothered. “Only if you’re interested, love.”

So that’s what the flicker was? Attraction. Even though some part of her flushed, warmth building in her stomach, the rest of her rallied against a term that held no true meaning to her. How could it? She knew nothing of love and love knew nothing of her. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, _lass_ , if that’s what you really want, but do let me knew when it’s okay to call you that.”

“Not anytime soon.”

“That’s not a never though, I can live with that,” he replied with a wink, holding his hand out for her mug as she drained the last of it in one big, ill-mannered gulp. She breezed passed him, ignoring the hand and rinsing it out herself. He dragged it back, sighing. “You don’t accept help or kindness much from people, do you?”

“Someone offering me help isn’t doing it out of kindness, it always has strings attached, and I’m not going to be a puppet.” Not to all her foster families, not to her birth parents, not to the government, and not to the life of a thief. She hacked them all away. It left her bare. With nothing. Now she was just a marionette that dangled from no strings, endlessly falling, but at least she was free. _Partially free_ , she thought, fingers once more finding the chain.

“Well then put me down as the newest record then, you can sleep in the guest room for the night if you’d like. I can’t, in good conscience, send you out in the storm, at this hour, you see?” He said, waving his hand. She narrowed her eyes, scanning his face, looking for a sign of deceit, a motive, something. Help came with strings, this was no different. He added, sensing where her thoughts were heading, “Besides, your clothes are still in the washer and I’m not so kind as to give you the clothes off my back. Even if they look better on you.” 

Her lie detector went off, but Emma couldn’t tell for what part. Were her clothes not in the washer? Would he have given her his clothes? Did they look better on her than on him? Which lead her traitorous mind to imagine him wearing this shirt, stretched tight across his chest, and him wearing these sweats low on his hips, and her eyes flickered to her lips-- _No, idiot, control yourself_. 

“Lass?” The way he said it made her think he had been trying to get her attention for a while and heat flared up in her cheeks; she turned her body to hide it, head ducked to the side and hair falling in a shield around her face. 

“Yes?”

“Am I going to have to beg?”

“Would you?”

“Probably not, but I would demand very nicely that you just accept this help.”

“You’re probably an ax murderer. An ax murderer that kills people with axes.” 

“Yes, I suppose an ax murderer would kill people with an ax. Fortunately, I am not a murderer nor do I even own an ax.” This wasn’t relieving. Most murderers said they weren’t murderers and only idiots believed them. Emma Swan was no idiot. “There’s a lock on the guest room door, if that helps?”

“You could have a key, it is your house.”

“Br--” He stopped himself with great effort, deflating under the weight of thoughts that Emma wasn’t privy. “Ah, right, I suppose that’s true, but I haven’t quite figured out where all the keys are.” He scratched behind his ear, the nervous twitch of all nervous twitches, just short of not making eye contact with her. Which he also did. Her lie detector didn’t go off though, nor had it when he confessed to not being a murderer, and only pure stubbornness kept her from agreeing. 

Perhaps as a last ditch effort, Killian said awkwardly, “Shove the dresser in front of the door when you go to sleep?” 

A warm bed for the night with room to stretch out, maybe another warm shower in the morning if she was so lucky. Maybe luck had decided it was time to offer her a little leeway after all the bad luck thrown at her. He stared at her, clearly waiting for her answer, and it was the nervous twitch of his lips, like a genuine soothing smile struggling to reach the surface, too far buried beneath  a heavy burden, that made her agree. That and a bed. She missed sleeping in a bed. “Alright, fine.” 

His answering smile had no business making her breath hitch, but it did. 

...

...

Morning came far quicker than Killian would have liked, but even his horrible headache and tired, blurring eyes weren’t enough to break his wake-with-the-sun body schedule. Groaning, he rolled over onto his side, furrowing into the warmth of his blankets and staring quizzically at the snow drifting in his window. “Snow not supposed to be in the house, bang off your boots, Liam,” he muttered groggily, having to blink twice before he remembered that Liam was gone.

Gone. Forever. The best thing in his life. Just... _gone_.

He sighed, rolling back on his back, frustrated. Every morning, he forgot and every morning, he remembered. He gained a brother and lost a brother every time he woke up. 

There’s snow in his bedroom. Why is there snow in here? He sat up, rolling his shoulders, groaning with relief at the stretch, eyeing the open window with distaste. Did he drink so much last night that he forgot he opened it? Did his drunk ass try to climb out the window like he had years ago as a teenager? Did he-- 

He hadn’t drank that must yesterday, not from a lack of trying, but from the shortage of alcohol. The window was open because somebody tried to rob him and he... he _invited_ them to stay the night! Didn’t even lock his own bedroom door or lock up his valuables, just showed her to the bedroom and went into his room to pass out. 

Who knows what she stole, who knows what she took. He didn’t drink that much, but did he drink that much to be so stupid? 

Frustrated, he threw himself out of bed, only swaying once from vertigo before he shoved himself into the nearest long sleeved shirt and slammed the window closed, cursing. He threw his door open, crossing the hall to Liam’s bedroom, only hesitating a moment before swinging the door open, praying that his things were untouched, that they weren’t ruined, that he hadn’t fucked up _again_ \--

It was exactly the way he left it the last time he was in there, from the rumpled bed sheets to the opened books and sheets of paper laying on his desk, all just waiting for him to return. “It’s not going to happen,” he said bitterly to the room, hand tight around the door knob as he fought the urge to slam the door, to shout. It was only the knowledge that he didn’t know if she was still in the house, if she was dangerous, if she had friends, that kept him from doing just that.

Slowly, carefully, he closed the door. He checked the bathroom next, even throwing back the shower curtains, before he moved on to the guest room, wondering what he would even do if he found somebody waiting to attack him. He didn’t even think to grab something to defend himself. 

He opened the door anyway, muscles coiled and prepared to spring into the offensive if anything was out of place, if anything was weird. The door was unlocked, which confused him considering how much she complained yesterday, but he merely grimaced and opened the door fully.

He stopped without entering the room any farther. 

She was _sleeping_. 

She was just sleeping, curled up tight and holding the sheets as though afraid they would be ripped away, the only hint of peace being the faint smile on her face. 

He left the room, tension fading from his body, pressing his palms hard over his eyes until he saw spots the moment the door clicked behind him. 

“Get a grip, asshole,” he muttered, going downstairs and groaning at the numbers on the microwave proclaiming the time to be after seven like it was the best damn thing. As if there was anything good about getting up at seven anymore. 

And there he was, right back where he was every single morning: knowing that Liam was gone and missing him more than ever. 

Thanking his past self for having the hindsight to leave a few beers on the counter, Killian grabbed one, sitting on the couch in the den without even bothering to turn on the light. 

That’s where she found him hours later, her eyes crystal clear and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, the rest of her tense and ready for battle. Like he was going to fight her now that the morning light was showing who she really was. 

As if she was somehow different now than she was a few hours ago.

He raised his drink in toast, grinning, but not feeling any actual happiness behind it. It was, thankfully, only his second. 

Probably because there was no more in the house.

She raised her brow. “It’s a little early to be drinking.”

“Never too early,” he replied breezily, shaking it at her. “Want a drink? I’d offer you a new one, but...” 

“No thanks.” 

“Ah, your parents taught you well, don’t accept a drink from strangers,” he said with a shrug, gulping the last of it and tossing the empty bottle on the table. It didn’t break, thankfully, but the clatter made her jump. More honestly, he muttered, “Sorry.”

“No, I learned that myself, no such parents to speak of,” she said after a long moment, sitting in the dark blue love-seat across from him rather than beside him, her gaze swiveling from him to the door. Run, her eyes seemed to say, but to him or to her, he wasn’t allowed to know. Didn’t think he wanted to know either. 

“Orphan?” He asked because he had no filter. 

“Yeah.”

And because his filter still wasn’t on, or maybe because the sudden tension in her shoulders, the way she shifted to pretend it didn’t bother her, made him want to reassure her, he shrugged and said, “Me too, kind of.” 

“Kind of?”

He fell back against the couch, scratching the scruff on his chin, more of a mess than it usually was. “My brother found me, he took care of me. We don’t have parents, but we have each other. He...” He stopped abruptly, the words cut off before they had time to form and he correct himself hoarsely. “Had. Had each other.” 

A pregnant pause. A sigh. 

“Is he the reason you don’t leave the house?”

“Maybe.” Yes, always yes. He didn’t want to go outside and see the world without him in it. He didn’t want to stand on a boat or on the concrete or in the grass or in the snow or in the supermarket and know that it would only be one pair of footsteps and one beating heart and one walking body. 

He didn’t want to be in a world where Liam didn’t exist. 

“But neither of us is much of a sobbing story teller, especially when there’s more interesting things to talk about,” he said, fumbling in the dark for a topic that wasn’t Liam. 

She eyed him, a mixture of wariness and distrust, making it clear that whatever questions he had would be weighed heavily before she answered it. “What type of questions?”

“Well, for starters, what’s your favorite color?"

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” She asked. He thought, for a moment, that she was trying to deflect the question, the most innocent question that Killian could think of, and was about to retract it entirely. Her half smile said otherwise, the way she slumped back against her seat, more relaxed than before, told him that most of this was part of her charm. 

“About zero seconds, I’ve wanted to know since you walked in and I noticed that your socks were two different colors,” he answered honestly, remembering briefly his confusion when she tossed her clothes into the washer and one sock was a pale blue while the other a faded yellow. 

An embarrassed blush crossed her face, but she smirked like it didn’t bother her, playing off her discomfort as armor. It didn’t work on him, his own armor rusted and cracking and needing rebuilding. He didn’t question her though, because she hadn’t pushed the subject of his brother and thus he owed her the favor of not asking why. 

Even if it burned on the end of his tongue.

“Yellow. My favorite color is yellow,” she said, picking at the end of her shirt. His shirt, he remembered, because hers were most likely still in a laundry basket and it struck him how homely that sounded. Her wearing his shirt and her laundry in a hamper by the washing machine. 

Like she lived here and such a thought made the rest of him flutter, but he didn’t coax that feeling, he didn’t question that feeling, he smothered it. 

“Like gold?”

Startled, she shook her head, frowning. “No... Well, yes, that too, but more like...” She struggled to explain. He wondered if anyone had ever bothered to ask. “Like the sun when it’s behind clouds or reflecting off the water. Not blinding, but peaceful.” 

And because she looked ready to close off, he nodded and answered though she hadn’t asked, “Mine is probably black.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised by that.” 

“I do like red, blue, and green as well,” he laughed, surprised to find that it sounded genuine.

He expected, at some point in the morning, for the conversation to eventually grow uncomfortable, but it doesn’t come when the morning fades into afternoon. At her stomach growl, his own following suit, he volunteered to make them lunch, half expecting her to deny and half hoping that she wouldn’t.

She agreed, after some hesitating, and he surprised her with his spectacular cooking abilities. 

He learned that she couldn’t cook at all, that she was part of the select few people who could possibly burn water. 

He learned that her drink of choice was hot chocolate and her food of choice was steak. He learned that her socks were different colors because she had been wearing more than one, to which he had questioned why and she had blushed, changing the subject. 

It wasn’t just superficial stuff though she told him about plenty of that, plenty of things that were seemingly unimportant, but to which he filed away in a rapidly growing file of information about her. She also told him, after coaxing, that she worked as a waitress, but was currently in the process for bail enforcement training. 

It didn’t stick with her either, that wasn’t possible when he was dealing with the master of deflection, and often she turned around questions that she deemed too personal around on him. He told her about how he grew up in England, how he and his brother joined the Navy as soon as he was old enough, how he left after losing the woman he loved over a year ago. He talked about Liam getting injured and discharged, following him across the pond, about how the two learned to co-exist together after three years of not. 

All in all, he felt like she learned more about him, considering he didn’t have as much reservation about sharing simple details of his past. It had the unexpected and not intended effect of pushing her to reveal similar things about herself. 

She told him about being put in foster care, she told him about having a family until she was five when the couple had their own baby and couldn’t afford both so they sent her back. She told him offhand, hiding her look of melancholy behind indifference, like it was just one of those _eh, it happens_ type of thing. He didn’t comment on this beyond telling her that she didn’t deserve that, to which she had no reply. 

It was well passed lunch and rapidly descending into late afternoon before they began to dwindle down, finding less things to use as an excuse for her to stay a little longer. But her laundry was clean and warm, even her blanket soft and smelling fresher than ever, and her stomach was filled of food and he couldn’t think of another reason for her to stick around. 

She couldn’t either, though he could tell with the way she slowly and methodically folded her blanket, the way she fixed the pillows on the couch and tidied up the room, that she wished for one. 

He walked her to the door equally slow, drawing out their last few seconds together. 

“Thank you for... not calling the cops on me,” she said suddenly, pausing by the door, so close that he could smell the shampoo on her hair, could see the shade of copper in her eyes.

He smiled. “Always, darling. Although you can just knock now rather than risk breaking your neck.” 

Her eyes flashed, awe and fear playing across her face, before she snorted, turning her head to hide the emotions from him. It scared him to realize how easily he could read them anyway. 

She opened the door and he felt the breath in his lungs crystallizing until he got a glimpse of beyond his porch, to the coating of white, unblemished snow across his neighborhood. It fell from the tree with every sway of its branches. It blotted out the road, the sidewalk, it blocked the doors to houses that weren’t higher up. 

He could probably walk off the porch without using the stairs. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, surprised and her wordless inhale was of agreement. Neither had notice the snow start up again, though neither had checked outside this morning either. He cleared his throat. “As capable as you are, I don’t believe you could traverse this without owning a helicopter.” 

“I don’t have one of those.” 

He didn’t expect her to, not if some of his suspicions were true. 

“So you were talking about that one movie, badgering me about watching,” he commented, leaning against the door, waiting to see if she would make a move outside anyway. Stubborn lass, he thought, too much fondness in the thought for a stranger. 

“Do you have popcorn?” She asked abruptly, tilting her head to him, chewing on her lip. 

“Most likely. What do you say, up for watching a movie with me?” 

It was what they were both hinting at after all, but at the way her eyes widened, he wondered if it was a mistake to put it so blatantly like that. Like this was a date rather than a way to pass the time. 

As he closed the door, escorting Emma back into the living room where the movie was and asking her to find the movie amid the chaos of the shelf, he stole into the kitchen to make the popcorn. An excuse, really, to have a minute alone to collect himself, to get rid of that shaky, nervous feeling like he was a lad going on his first date.

This wasn’t a date.

He was surprisingly disappointed by that, but he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be so fond over a stranger. 

Was she a stranger though? It was an unorthodox meeting sure, but hadn’t he just spent nearly the entire day getting to know her? Stranger didn’t fit, it just didn’t. He felt like he knew her and, sure, she could be lying, but Killian was inclined to believe she wasn’t, could see the truth in her words as easily as he could see her walls. 

Stranger, no. Friend? Possibly. 

The microwave beeped, signalling the end of his debate, and he prepared the popcorn, not entirely sure how she liked it, but figuring he couldn’t go wrong with butter and sugar. “Do you want a coke?” He called, setting the large bowl on the countering and grabbing a drink from the fridge, anticipating her answer.

“Sure,” she replied and he nodded to himself, grinning at getting that correct. It was a bit of a balancing act to get from the kitchen to the living room without making a colossal mess, but he made it without catastrophe, which he announced to her and earned himself a laugh that made him very proud of himself indeed. 

He turned on the movie next, switching off the lights as he was sitting down, hesitating before selecting to sit on the couch beside her. To avoid passing the popcorn back and forth, he reminded himself sharply, relaxing back against the cushion. The curtains shielded the room from any light that escaped from stormy grey prison above, casting the room in darkness that made him acutely aware of how close they were sitting, the container of popcorn sitting between their two thighs. 

The movie started before he could do something stupid, like take her hand or something worse, like kiss her. 

Which was an absurd idea. 

He had no business kissing strangers, or semi-strangers, or semi-friends, or whatever this thing that went beyond on casual kindness to somebody who needed it. 

With such turbulent thoughts, he didn’t expect being able to watch the movie. Thus, he was surprised that the movie was halfway over when he paused to go to the restroom, having gotten caught up in the tale of Buttercup and Wesley, in the battle between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Fezzik and Inigo, about Prince Humperdinck and his treachery. His thoughts were long forgotten.

At least until he came back into the room, watching the way she propped her feet on the table, her blanket draped across her lap, looking comfortable and at home on his sofa. Her lips were quirked up in a smile as she watched the paused screen of Buttercup smothering Wesley in kisses, something soft in her eyes, illuminated by the light of the television only, night having fallen half an hour ago. 

Then she turned to him and her lips quirked more, bigger and brighter, the look swiftly gone, buried beneath her smile, temporarily forgotten and _damn it_ he was so wrapped around her fingers already. 

He contained his revelation, his heart stuttering and his footsteps faltering, before continuing across the way, dropping into the seat beside her, jostling her slightly. She shifted around, finding a comfortable way to sit, and when they both stopped fidgeting, he started the movie again. 

This time, he couldn’t even feign interest in it. Instead he watched her, the way her eyes didn’t lift from the television once, the way her lips would frown or smile depending on what was happening. She had probably seen the movie a thousand times, but she watched it like it was the first time all over again and he watched her, unable to deny that whatever he felt for her, stupid as it might have been, was probably never going to last beyond this day.

She would leave and he would go back to before, to lounging around, getting drunk to run from nightmares and fighting memories that tried to stalk him, wondering how long his misery would last and just prolonging it. He would go back to digging for everything he could about the man who killed his brother, raging against the fact that the man had lived with minimal injuries while Liam hadn’t. 

Such an existence hadn’t been a question for him until just then, it was just a fact encouraged by routine, but now he wondered about after, now he wondered about what he would do next. Now he wondered how long he would have before something, the drinking or the bills or madness from vengeance, did him in as well. 

The last of the Jones brothers. 

What a disgrace. 

But Emma...

She didn’t make him _feel_ like he was a disgrace and when she was gone, he didn’t particularly want to go back to that. This was the lightest he had felt since Liam had died, since Milah had died, like the weight of their memories wasn’t anchors around his ankles in a deep sea.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she chided him, no longer looking at the television, but frowning at him with concern.

His pounding head was a testament to that. 

“No, I’m not,” he lied anyway.

“Liar.”

“Are you a mind reader?”

“Hardly. I’ve got this skill, let’s call it a superpower, I can always tell when somebody is lying.” She raised her brow, a look of intent on his face that reminded him instantly of being scolded, until a grin stretching across her face at the last second. “Also, I wouldn’t need a superpower, that was bullshit.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you’ve got a wrinkle here that makes you look eighty,” she pointed out, her fingers brushing hesitantly and gently across his brow, smoothing the furrow there. He relaxed under her touch, but as she trailed from his brow down his cheek, lingering over the scar on his cheek, he stiffened, swallowing. 

“Sorry.” She pulled her hand back, realizing in an instant how close she was leaning to him, almost sitting in his lap, the popcorn bowl abandoned on the table, and scooted so far away that she nearly fell off the couch. 

He caught her hand, tugging her back over with a soft sigh. “It’s alright, you just surprised me,” he admitted, looking down at their hands, her fingers twitching in his grip. He loosened his hold, offering her room to pull away, and when she did, he tried to ignore the pang until he felt her tentative touch on his cheek again, clearly waiting for a response as she paused.

He nodded, afraid of breaking the moment, and she continued. 

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but he didn’t say a thing and she didn’t either, both content to let her explore his face, the movie forgotten. Her thumb brushed over his lips and he sucked in a shaky breath.

Her hands trailed down, away from his face, to run along his shoulders, leaning closer to him, he could just turn and he would kiss her. He didn’t, but he was positive she could feel the way his heart was thrumming even through his shirt. 

She brushed her lips across the scar on his cheek just briefly, but it was enough to snap him into moving, shifting around to pull her into his lap and tilting his face to hers, not touching, his breath ghosting across her cheeks, waiting for her to decide whether she would hit him or kiss him.

She kissed him. 

...

...

If this was what it meant to be kissed breathless, to feel little bolts of electricity from someone’s lips, then Emma would gladly pay the price for them. His lips were gentle at first, just tasting hers, until she sighed into the kiss, but he pressed more urgently, nipping at her bottom lip, sucking at her top, his tongue running along the seem until she opened, tangling with hers. 

Emma thought she was simultaneously drowning and flying at the same time, her fingers tightening around the collar of his shirt, breaking away for air before diving back in, deciding that this was very much a place she wanted to stay. 

It frightened her and delighted her in the same breath, that she could feel so comfortable with somebody she had known less than a day. 

She kissed him to say all the things she felt, the uncertainty of what she felt, but the surety that it was something, to show all the things that she couldn’t and probably wouldn’t say. Saying them made it real, but right here, in their personal little winter wonderland, she didn’t allow herself to run, fought against the instinct. 

At some point a long while later, the television flickered out and the lights in the kitchen did too, plunging them into darkness, and they broke apart, faces flushed and panting, Emma’s back pressed into the couch as he hovered over her. She didn’t let him pull away far, lifting up to press her lips against his throat, sucking and nipping and biting until he groaned. 

“ _Emma_ ,” he sighed, her name like a plea on his lips. 

“Killian,” she breathed right back, laughing as he growled, burying his face in her neck. 

She protested when he finally sat up, but sighed contently when he pulled her up with him, yanking her into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing kisses to every inch of his face as he navigated expertly through the dark to his bedroom. 

And he kissed her breathless again, her skin heating from the inside out, and she would gladly pay anything to experience it again. 

Which is why, when it was over, when she lay in his arms, his heart beating evenly against his back and his breath warm against her neck in his sleep, murmuring something that Emma couldn’t understand, when she found her brain whispering _you could have this_ and the rest of her caught up, Emma did what she did best: she ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think it would be easy?


	3. Going Forward

Somewhere between waking up in his arms, far more comfortable than she would ever admit, and the blinding panic at that thought, she had completely forgotten about the snow piling up until she was standing on the porch, staring at the mush that she could possibly waddle through if she had somewhere to warm herself up after.

Considering she lived in her car, she had no such place and she would be a fool to consider it. She might not have cared much about her shoes, ragged and used as they were, but they did the job of keeping her toes warm and safe and she had no intention of absolutely ruining them. She cursed, rocking back on her heels, the brisk, cold air slapping her cheeks.

Run anyway or go back.

It seemed like she always had choices like that and it seemed like she always chose the wrong one. Foster family after foster family, where she should have gone back and instead had run. Neal, when she should have chosen to run and she chose to go back. Would this be another mistake for her to lament about later? Would it be another thing for her to curse about in the backseat of her car?

Would she ever learn?

She closed the door, a shiver working up her body, but didn't retreat any farther. Instead, she leaned her forehead on the door, arms crossing around her stomach. The wood was rough against her skin and twice as cold as the air outside, but somehow it did the job that the air outside couldn't: it woke her up. Her panic retreated. Not completely, she could still feel it lingering in the back of her mind, prodding at the stray thoughts, but _enough._

Just enough to think.

Emma was getting ahead of herself. A roll in the sheets didn't make a relationship. Scratching an itch didn't mean that she had to stay forever. The warmth of his embrace and the gentleness of his kisses and the rightness of the entire thing didn't mean that it meant something more. To pretend that it wasn't just the result of loneliness and heartbreak for both of them was poor form.

Or bad form, as Killian would say. It made her laugh, just a little, her lips trembling by the end because no matter what she thought, it hadn't felt like loneliness and heartbreak manifested. Would it be a cliche for her to think it had been right? Like all those things had faded away for a few minutes, like they weren't just two people adrift at sea.

That was the thing though: it only went away for a few minutes. Heartbreak always came back.

The sad truth was that she was too broken for anything to work out.

The even sadder truth was that he might be too broken to tell.

Not that she would ask him.

There she was again with _run_ chanting in her head, too weak to fight it. She pulled the door open, the puff of air like smoke in front of her. She paused only once, rocking instinctively away from the chill, before storming out into the morning, a sliver of sunlight shining through the tree.

The tree that had brought her here, the one that connected to his window. She had forgotten, in the hours that she had been there, to point out that he should get the damn thing trimmed before someone decided to burglarize his house.

_Or so she wouldn't be tempted to come back._

She shook her head roughly, both to shake the thought away - because Emma Swan did not go back anywhere - and to shield her body from the brisk wind once she stepped from the shelter of the house. Her toes were cold, the worn sneakers doing little to protect her from the snow that went to her ankles, swallowing her foot with each step.

" _Emma!_ "

...

...

He rolled over with a grunt, lifting his head enough to reach over for a different pillow. It was freezing outside, but it was unbearably hot in his bed. His foot was poking out of the comforter, the sheets tangled around his legs, hanging low on his bare back. As he shifted, it drifted lower still and he grumbled, pulling it up more and reaching over to make sure Emma was covered as well.

His hand fell on bare sheets, still warm to the touch and only just starting to chill. Like the warm body had only left a few minutes prior, but a few minutes too long. He shifted up, hair ruffled, eyes bright and tired, looking toward the bathroom for a light or the shift of weight.

Nothing.

He climbed out of bed, pulling sweats over his legs, uncomfortably aware of the soreness of his muscles. It was a pleasant reminder or it would be when he found her, when he made sure she wasn't gone forever.

Gone like everyone else in his life and bloody hell he couldn't lose someone else he cared about, not again. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head, cursing.

He might have known her around a day, but he knew they had something that just needed time to flourish. He wasn't sure when it shifted, from waking up in the morning just before with the thought that Liam was alive and the crushing knowledge that he wasn't to knowing he was gone but no longer crushed under that knowledge. Like a weight had lifted.

He was in over his head. This was too soon and too fast, but with time - with time - it wouldn't be. But he didn't think that the chance would slip away so quickly, gone before it even had the chance.

Downstairs, a door slammed closed.

His head shot up, heart leaping, springing to his feet and down the stairs before he even thought of why.

He knew why, his thoughts drifting to the script between his shoulder blades, words of wisdom that Liam had told him more than anything: a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.

If he didn't fight, he got nothing. Maybe he still would. But the thought wasn't as appealing as it was a few days ago and at least he would have tried.

He threw the door open, nearly smacking into the wooden door, eyes burning from the cold. He couldn't tell for a moment if that gold was the sun or her hair, it he called anyway, "Emma!"

She froze, already shuddering from the cold, and when she turned to face him, her eyes were wide. If he wasn't freezing just standing in the doorstep, he might have smiled at the rumpled hair and pink nose.

As it wasn't, he couldn't do anything except be stunned by the sudden relief he felt just locking eyes with her. She wasn't gone, she had turned back.

He opened his mouth, but floundered on what to say, the words twisting in his throat and never making it to his mouth. "Emma," he said instead because that was the only word that would form.

She shivered and he snapped from his thoughts, concerned eyes scanning over her figure. "You can't go out in this, it's bloody freezing."

She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together to hide a tremble. She backed up a step, the walls building up behind her eyes, taller and more imposing than ever, like somebody entirely different was trying to take her place.

But he knew, he had seen behind her walls, he knew what was there and he knew the unflinching coldness that stared back at him wasn't real. God, did it feel like a slap though, like a little voice whispered in his head that he didn't deserve her anyway.

"Emma, please, I know that… This is sudden and that you…" He flubbed again, the charisma fading, the awkwardness of youth raising its head. She didn't leave though. It might have been his imagination but he imagined that her eyes might have been pleading with him. Let her go or convince her to stay? He couldn't tell which one she wanted. He knew which one he wanted though and he figured, with the way she shivered again, that she would want this one too. "We can talk or we can pretend it never happened if that's what you want, I'll do whatever you ask, even if you want to leave when the snow melts enough to get outside. But staying out here, in the calm before the storm? You'll die."

She stared at him, her eyes uncomfortably piercing, but he met her gaze straight on, feeling like Liam stood right behind him, supporting him. He stepped forward, feeling brave, even if he grimaced as his bare toes touched the ice slicked steps, relieved enough that she didn't move away that he barely noticed.

He didn't say anything, but held out his hand.

If he had to plead with this woman, he would. Pride be damned.

She caught his hand hesitantly, fingers trembling in his grasp, but she let him help her up the steps and she let him usher her back in the house.

…

…

Emma dried her hair, her toes and feet still cold, her shoes no doubt beyond repair. She would have to splurge on another pair when the storm was over, she thought with a frown, glancing out the window where a flurry of snow had started following between him forcing her in the shower and her getting out now.

It looked like he was right: it was just the beginning of the storm.

She probably would have died in soaked clothes and a no doubt buried and frozen bug. She supposed she should be thankful that he stopped her, but all she could think of were his words.

He hadn't lied to her, she could tell, but Emma knew better than anyone that her superpowers couldn't be trusted with matters of the heart.

Not that this was a matter of the heart, she told herself, believing it even less than she had earlier. She couldn't say it didn't involve matters of the heart when it was so clearly playing across his eyes.

She knew walls, she had seen them when she first met him and more throughout the day, but she had seen the look behind, seen the walls fade throughout the day.

And right then, not during his appeasing his words, but during the broken whisper of her name, she had seen none.

How could someone be so brave as to let themselves open like that? Didn't he know what happened when you didn't have something to protect yourself? Didn't he know what happened when you let yourself open up to someone so fully?

He did. She remembered the topic of his brother and the topic of his love Milah, she saw the heartache and grief. He knew, not more than her but in a different way than her, of what happened when you did open your heart.

And yet he was willing to do it again for her. Someone he hadn't known forty-eight hours ago.

"Emma, I'm afraid we no longer have any sausages or bacon, a travesty I know, but would potatoes and eggs suffice for breakfast?" His voice called through the door, a lightness barely hiding the hint of hesitation and worry behind his words.

Her voice shook, fighting the warmth that filled her at his concern. It was a losing battle though. "That's- that's fine."

He paused. "Alright. I'll… be downstairs. Take your time, come down when you're ready or I can leave your food in the microwave."

He was letting her choose. It was always her choice. God, when had anyone ever given her a chance, let alone a choice?

She closed her eyes, sucking in a breath and only letting it go when his footsteps started to retreat. "Killian?"

"Aye?"

She chickened out. "Nothing, never mind."

She held her breath until he walked, only letting her head bang on the closed bathroom door when he was far enough away to miss it.

She debated on just staying in there, taking him up on the offer to get her food later and pretend that nothing had changed, but the longer she stood there, her toes aching and in desperate need of rest, she sucked in a deep breath, trying to draw in some of his bravery.

As it was, he didn't have to put her food in the microwave since she came down the stairs before he was finished up. It seemed like ages had passed in the bathroom, but it had really only been minutes and he smiled at her, the type of smile that made her warm. The type of smile that made her want to smile back.

She held back, but barely.

As it was, he didn't have to pretend it never happened either. She had only say down at the table and been presented with warm food and hot chocolate, exactly as she said she had liked it yesterday, when she melted. It was stupid, but he had remembered.

She caught his hand when he went to retreat to his seat, the one as far from her as possible. "I don't want to pretend, I just…. I don't know how to do this," she whispered, looking at their hands. "I mean, what are we? You don't even know me."

He smiled, she could hear it in her voice. "I feel like I know you, I'm pretty sure we covered all the first date topics yesterday," he said, trying to tease, but the weight of the conversation bringing nothing except a small smile to both their faces.

He sat in the seat beside her, tilting his chair to face her.

"I thought, when Liam died, that I wouldn't be able to care for anyone again. I thought that this," he made a gesture to the house, "would be my legacy. A house with memories but no life. Until I met you. You reminded me little bits at a time of what things were and… what they could be. Not now, I know that it's too soon, but… I do care for you and maybe it could be something more, maybe it'll just be a fulfilling friendship. I don't want you to just be another memory that these walls have seen."

Her hand twitched and he loosened his grip enough for her to pull away, but his thumb stroked across her knuckles. She looked up, catching his apologetic grin. Like he knew how she would react, but wanting her to know anyway. He was laying all the cards on the table.

He didn't want her to be something that lived in the memories of these walls anymore than she wanted him to be part of her big book of regrets.

She could let him be alone, she couldn't be the only one to share something, but Emma didn't know where to start. Where in the book of Emma did she begin? "I live in my car," she blurted out.

He blinked at the segue, but didn't look surprised. "I figured it was something like that." At her bewildered look, he scratched behind his ear. "Well, you didn't break into my house to steal things and your clothes looked a bit worn and your hair was a mess, I figured that's why you came here. To get away from the snow."

"Oh." She didn't know how to respond to that, shaking her head briefly. "Why did you…?"

"Let you stay?" He finished with a small grin. "I'm no stranger to having nothing, Emma."

She nodded. "I live in my car, Killian. I can't even take care of myself." She couldn't even take care of her son. "I care about you and that scares me because everyone I've ever cared about has left me. And I wouldn't believe you if you said that you would be the one that wouldn't."

"You might not believe me, but I'll say it anyway, I won't leave you unless you ask me to and I would be quite unwilling even then." He paused to let it sink in, flipping their entwined hands around so that her fingers slid between the gaps of his. "I'm quite fond of you, love, even as just a friend until you can trust me."

"You don't care that I don't have a home and barely have a job and have a criminal record?" Emma hadn't told him that and she waited for the revulsion to cross his face as it had crossed every face whenever the topic came up. It came up far too often.

"I don't exactly have a good history with the law either love. Unless you're a murderer, your past doesn't bother me although this does explain your vehemence the day we met," he mused. "As for living in your car, I can't say I've had that experience exactly, but I know the winters here are brutal. This…Well, this might seem sudden, but my spare bedroom is open."

"You want me to move in with you?" Her voice was high pitched.

He struggled to think of a better way to put, mouthing different options while Emma felt an increasing amount of panic and run, Emma, run when he shook his head. "Not like that right now. It's more like I'm asking you to be my roommate. I assure you, this is for my own selfish desires rather than my attempts at being a gentleman."

"Roommates. Right." Hadn't she considered picking up a flyer off the bulletin board in the diner? The ones that pleaded for a roommate? Wouldn't this be the same thing? Except it would be like going to become someone's roommate after she had already slept with them. It was like sleeping with a one night stand that just wanted to be friends.

Except he didn't want to just be friends but he wanted to know her anyway, regardless of whether they repeated last night or not.

"You don't have to decide anything now," he added, clearing his throat. The tips of his ears were endearingly pink as he retreated some from her, no doubt expecting that it was too much, too fast. "I'll go with whatever you want, but I insist that you stay until the storm passes rather than risk your car."

"Okay."

She thought she liked that about him, the fact that he didn't even know her too well, but he already knew when to push her and when to let the words sink in before he continued. She thought that if he could figure that out in a day then he could demolish her walls with ease. Maybe he already was, he had wormed his way beneath them, finding the weak points that she hadn't yet noticed and she knew that he could bring them all down.

It scared her. More than she cared to admit and as she looked at him from beneath her lashes, watching him eat his food, stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn't notice, something churning behind his eyes, she thought he might be afraid too.

"Why are you risking it? I could hurt you," she said, frowning. If he was afraid, why did he risk it? Why would he take the chance?

"You could," he agreed. "But I don't think you will and my brother says… used to say… that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. It took me a while to remember that, but he's right, you have to fight for things and if you're not strong enough to do it yourself, you find someone who can help."

"He sounded wise," she murmured, rolling his words around in her brain and he nodded, looking at a picture on the wall. She followed his gaze, seeing the light haired man with his arm wrapped around a younger Killian's shoulder. The melancholy in his gaze made her gut clench and she changed the subject, a small smile on her lips. "What happened to the smartass from yesterday?"

He didn't miss a beat, winking at her as soon as he faced her. "I assure you, he's still there. But darling, I know when to poke a sleeping dragon and when to let her rest."

"Are you calling me a dragon?"

"Perhaps."

She pinched his shoulder, laughing when he jumped.

...

...

She didn't give him an answer that day. As a result, the next few days, as the storm worsened and then slowly died, they walked around in a never-ending moment of ease until they remember that night and then fell into awkward silence. After a few days though, it lessened and with the snow nearly gone now, just a slushy mess as a reminder, Killian knew that today was the day, he couldn't come up with anymore excuses to keep her here.

It made him feel slightly better that she didn't rush to leave either, that she hesitated in doorways, wringing her hands and eyes dancing with some emotion. She had something to say, he knew it, and the fact that she didn't just leave as the hours passed nearly a week after their meeting, he felt increasingly positive that she would be staying.

He just wasn't sure how to broach the subject, but he had to soon. He couldn't stand the will she, won't she debate that he went through every night, fearing that the morning would come and the guest bed would be empty.

It was after lunch that he finally made his move, swooping in to stand beside her as she did the dishes. His heart stuttered at the knowledge that they had a routine already, that he handled the cooking because she was a terrible cook and she did the dishes because he didn't ever do them right in her book. It wasn't just breakfast, lunch, and dinner either. She slotted into his life as though she had been there the entire time, filling in a majority of the pieces that he hadn't known were empty, and if he was starting to be increasingly sappy in his head then it was time to put on his big boy pants, as she would put it, and just talk to her.

"Love?"

She didn't twitch at the name anymore, something he thought of fondly. "Yes?" She said, not looking up from scrubbing a particularly stubborn piece of cheese from her plate, the remnants of her grilled cheese.

"The snow is nearly gone now. I was thinking that we should probably get your car, maybe move it into the garage or at least the driveway." He leaned casually on the counter beside her, trying to pretend that this was just one of their ordinary conversations.

She slowed in washing the dishes and he didn't have to look at her to know she was chewing on her lip. He could practically hears the gears whirling in her head, staying silent for so long that his hopes of getting a positive response dwindled smaller and smaller, barely an ember when she finally nodded her head. "Yeah, I... I think that would be a good idea. I should probably get some of my clothes out too so you can get yours back."

She peeked up at him in time to catch the wide smile on his face before he could tame his happiness into something less likely to panic her, but she didn't jump or twitch or frown at him as he expected. Instead, she smiled back, her walls down and her eyes open, small and hesitate, but oh so real.

He was positive that he could fall in love with that smile.

More than that, he was relieved to have the time to find out.

...

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to return to this universe in the future, but if I don't, this is the ending I wanted for them. This was all about them finding one another at a time when they needed the other most. Both of them were building walls, but the other wormed underneath before they were completed and I really wanted to show the beginning of that. This was, basically, Lieutenant Duckling on the edge of becoming Captain Swan so I hope I pulled that off. Thank you for all the kind reviews, I really appreciate the support! 
> 
> Congratulations, sailorkillian, I'm so proud of how far you've come and are continuing to grow!


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